Fridays Always End In DOOM
by The Wayfaring Strangers
Summary: Of course Mandos finally snapped, and turned Fëanor into a plushie. Of course, that plushie had to show up on thewayfaringstrangers' doorstep, with Sauron-plushie tagging along for the ride. Perfect - and of course it was Friday. Part of the Plush Toy Collaboration. Chapter five: Sauron glimpses the web. Tulkas throws cats. Feanor makes pizza.
1. To the Foolish Mortals

**Oh boy, this took forever. I got one paragraph, and it died. But after many hours of brainstorming, it has begun. A big, fat, Celtic thanks to CrackinAndProudOfIt, who beta'd for me. She did a lot to help this little ficcie.  
**

* * *

All was tranquil and beautiful in Valinor. The birds sang, the elves sang, the Maiar sang, and all would have been peaceful, too, had they been singing the same tune. But we digress.

As I was saying, all was peaceful, beautiful, and all the adjectives that mean roughly their equivalent.

_Until..._

"ENOUGH!" roared Mandos, storming into Manwë's hall on Mount Everwhite. Varda sighed in annoyance. Námo was always Dooming-and-Glooming about something. Her sour mood was somewhat appeased when she smugly noticed that he was more than slightly out of breath from having climbed the tallest mountain in Arda. And judging by how ticked-off he looked, the Vala must have had cause to do it in record time, too.

"Súlimo," he ground out," I can no longer endure the-" Here he gnashed his teeth. "-insubordinate ...insubordination of_ Fëanor_!" Namo made the name sound as though it tasted of stale licorice: the worst flavour in Arda.

"And what would you have me do about this...insubordination?" Manwe inquired, inwardly sighing at the tirade that was sure to follow.

But instead of the expected rantings and ravings, Mandos buried his head in his hands and groaned.

"Is there nothing that will quell his constant anger? His endless schemes and accusations? Is there no peace?"

Varda raised an eyebrow. "Your..._threats_ against him had no effect?"

The answer came in a tone of despondency. "None. None what so ever. That cursed Noldo is beyond shame - he he heesds not my blackmail. He still vows that he will escape from my halls and wreak vengeance upon his enemies."

Manwë sighed, out loud this time- the situation called for a hundred sighs. "As I said, what would you have me do?"}

"I do not know," Mandos wailed. "I do not know!"

A long pause ensued.

The silence was punctuated by Varda's sudden cry of "I have an idea!"

All eyes turned to the Star Queen.

"Well, let us hear it. I begin to grow desperate," Námo replied.

Varda lowered her voice and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. "I have learned the art by which recalcitrant fëar may be transformed into objects which the mortal Men give unto to their children for amusement. They are named 'plushies'..."

As she spoke, a wicked gleam appeared in Mandos's eyes.

* * *

RandomCelt and DarthMihi (who shall hereafter be referred to as Mihi and Celt) were having a typical, boring day. Their parents had gone out of town for the weekend, leaving thewayfaringstrangers to hold down the fort. ( Which may have been a bad idea.) Mihi was reading a fanfic, and Celt was laboring rather fruitlessly over a sketch of Idril Celebrindal.

Then the door bell rang, like an ominous herald of Doom.

Celt, who had long ago begun ignoring such heralds of Doom, dashed down the carpeted stairs and hastily opened the front door, a half-way cheerful "hello" on her lips. But there was no one on the other side, only a dog-eared cardboard box. _That's weird,_ she thought, staring into the cloudy distance. Celt shook her mousy brown head and carried it into the kitchen. As it landed on the counter with a doleful thump, Mihi sauntered into the green-walled kitchen, then stopped short and looked questioningly at her twin sister.

"Celt, what's that?"

"I don't know..." She frowned and absently re-adjusted her glasses.

Mihi sighed and rolled her brown eyes. "Who sent it?"

Celt sighed. "Mihi, I don't know."

"Then read the label, Twaddle."

Celt ignored the irritating nickname, and squinted at the battered, fading sticker. Her frown deepened.

"It doesn't have any info on it at it all. It only says, 'To the Foolish Mortals...from _Námo_?"

* * *

_ Fëar, plural of fëa, means a spirit (of a being)_**  
**

**There! A ridiculously short beginning. The idea has been hanging around in my head for ages, but I couldn't get it to come out. Grrr. Anyway, reviews are greatly appreciated. Please tell a poor Celtie what you think of her little experiment. **

**...and Sauron-plushie will be popping up. O-o  
**

**~RandomCelt**


	2. The Flaming Chili Incident strikes again

**Before I get started, i'd like to thank two people for helping me with this: CrackinAndProudOfIt, for being my beta (You rock, Crackers!), and A-Nony-Mouse, my anonymous reviewer, for giving the kick in the pants to write this chapter. **

* * *

"_N__á__mo_?" DarthMihi practically screeched. "Doesn't that mean Mandos?"

'Celt was too busy thinking to answer her twin. Her fly-away brows drew together as she muttered, "It can't be a prank..."

Mihi's hands landed on her hips as her brows quirked up. "Why not? Do you really think that a Vala-who-doesn't-exist would send us a package in the mail?"

Celt sighed. "Look Mihi, no-one who knows us knows enough about _The Silmarillion_ to prank us like this. And if it is a prank, it's probably from someone who knows us very well."

Mihi rolled her eyes and reached into a drawer, pulling out a pair of orange scissors. "So let's open it!"

* * *

"There's been a mistake."

"WHAT?" Námo roared.

The Maia sent to summon him cringed. "My Lord... Lord Súlimo dispatched me to inform you, and bids you come to him at once."

"WHY?"

"I...I do not know what mistake he speaks of..."

"Fah!"

"If you do not come my Lord, I shall be forced to inform my Lady Vairë about the Flaming Chili Incident-"

"Worthless black-mailer!" Mandos sighed. "I'm coming."

* * *

One long and ardous climb up the Holy Mountain later, the elder of the Fëanturi appeared in Manwë's spotlessly clean halls, tracking everwhite-mud in on his gloomy, grey robe and his gloomy, grey sandals. (It stained the everwhite halls a touch more brilliant.)

"Námo, come, be seated and help us sort out this royal mess," commanded Súlimo. The Valar's Doomsman grunted, and did as he was told.

Varda spoke next. "I have successfully transformed Fëanaro into a so-called 'plushie' and sent him unto the dwelling of two mortals who style themselves 'FanFiction Writers'."

Mandos felt his (gloomy and grey) eyebrows rise. "Then whatever is the problem? Fëanor ought to teach the little blighters..."

Manwë sighed. "Fëanor isn't the only one we sent. Apparently, the Maia Mairon, called Sauron, and Gorthaur the cruel –do you follow me?"

"Yes..." Námo remembered the little twerp, of course he did. How could any self-respecting Vala forget a Maia who had the chutzpah to turn himself into a giant, flaming eye-in-the-sky?

Varda broke in. "Mairon escaped from the Outer Darkness and went along for the ride."

"&%$#!"

_"N__á__mo!"_ Varda looked scandalized.

"Sorry..." Namo pasted on a smile, which, in all of its fakeness, actually looked creepier than his usual frown. _But I don't mean it... Really, how could the High King of Arda let something this... this... **idiotic** happen?  
_

* * *

Celt reached into the box and sifted through layers of packing peanuts. At length, her hand encountered something...lumpy. Everyone's favorite nerd carefully pulled out the mystery item.

"A _plushie_?" She inspected it more closely. Pale skin, long black hair, a proud-but-noble face... Celt gasped.

"It's Fëanáro!"

"Seriously, Celt?_ F__ë__anor_?"

"Oh, Mihi, who else looks like this?" Said wayfaringstranger grabbed another figure out of the box. A mischievous look appeared on her face.

"Then this one's Sauron!" RandomCelt peered over Mihi's shoulder. Her hazel eyes widened.

"It _is_! But is actual name is Mairon-"

"I. Don't. Care."

"But _he_ does!"

Just then, Fëanor twitched. RandomCelt dropped him to the hard, tile floor. And then she remebered to scream.

* * *

"Now, Námo, there is no need to get upset, but the plushies have one more attribute that we have not discussed."

The Star Queen tried not to sound irritated. _But really, who knew Mandos could get this crabby? _

Said Vala felt a sinking sensation in his Ainu-equivalent- of-a-stomach. "And that is...?"

"After a few hours, they come to life. But still in miniature form, of course."

"***&%$^$^&%&$*%##*&^&!**"

_"N__Á__MO!"_

* * *

_There we go! Chapter two. ...and who knew Mandos could use such colorful language? :P Reviews would be lovely. :)  
_

_~RandomCelt  
_


	3. Hail to The Kinslayer-in-Chief

_Big thanks to CrackinAndProudOfIt for betaing! May your beard grow ever longer, and may the hair on your toes never fall out! ...or may you at least discover massive amounts of chocolate in some unassuming place. ;)_

* * *

RandomCelt screamed.

Then she danced around the kitchen island, lost her footing, and smashed both elbows into the hard, shiny counter that so unmercifully broke her mad flight. Fëanor sat up. Mairon twitched. DarthMihi pulled her twin up and glared at her, while poor RandomCelt began to hyperventilate, muttering things like, _Why me? What did I do? Does Mandos really hate me?_

The greatest of the Noldor stood slowly, surveying the giants' world around him. His voice sounded deep and commanding despite [a] {his} diminutive stature.

'What is this strange and' -his alabaster brow furrowed while his classical nose twitched-'odd-smelling place?'

Mihi didn't bat an eyelash. 'This is our kitchen.'

Mairon/Sauron/That Dread Eye In The Skyalso got up and began to stride about majestically on his black little feet, surveying the bleak wilderness of patterned counter-top that stretched out around him. He took stock of his surroundings and -

'GORTHAUR!'

'YOU LITTLE WRETCH OF A NOLDO!'

-was spotted by the keen eyes of said Noldo. All the Ages of Arda might have come to a crashing halt then and there, had not a vast kitchen separated Elf and Maia. Celt breathed a shaky sigh and nervously shoved mud-hued hair out of her face, wondering what in the name of Manwë she should be doing. At least the diminutive figures of legend were not yet causing mayhem and ruin.

Always count your blessings.

Then the greatest of the Noldor, seeing that his enemy had the high ground, sought to gain the heights above him**_. _**He cast about for some means of ascending to the counter, wishing bitterly that he had not fallen to the floor. RandomCelt summoned her nerve and picked him up gingerly, eliciting a cry of rage, followed by a rather unlordly squeak of shock as Fëanor comprehended his position in the land of the giants. His dark-fire eyes met Celt's hazely ones and his deep voice rang out, oddly coupled with such a tiny _hr__ö__a_.

'Who are you? What am I doing here?' The volume rose. 'And what is HE doing here?'

RandomCelt hastily put him down, stammering a response. 'I don't know! Mandos sent you here - don't blame me.' The girl almost wilted under Fëanor's fierce gaze , but somehow she held her ground. He was, after all, in miniature form. Then Fëanor actually began to pay attention to the words tumbling out of her mouth.

'Mandos?' She nodded profusely, while Sauron began to puff himself up, ready to start a dramatic and terrifying speech. Fëanor knitted his brow and growled. It was a scary sight.

'That Vala...' He spit out a word in Quenya that would have made Morgoth blush. Fortunately, Celt could neither understand nor remember the awful oaths that poured forth from her tiny guest like tea from a kettle. Presently, the creator of the Silmarils stopped mid-word and stared, really stared, at Celt.

'What are you?!'

'A girl! A mortal being, I think...'_ Oh, stupid! He probably hates mortals..._Her sense of dread grew by the second. They were Doomed, because everything involving Fëanor or his offspring inevitably ended in Doom, and _F__ë__anor_ was sitting in her_ kitchen_.

Fëanor grunted and then spoke again. 'Why are you so large?'

'We're not - you're just tiny,' Mihi informed him, apprehending Sauron by grabbing his foot. Then, three things happened at once: Sauron howled mightily and attempted to bite Mihi, Fëanor sat down and calmly informed Celt that she _would_ help him find a cure for Mandos' existence, and Celt realized that neither of their guests had any real power in their current _hr__ö__ar._ It was thus, between Sauron's threats of Doom and her overwhelming relief, that she did not notice the maniacal gleam shimmering in Fëanor's tiny eyes, the nefarious gleam that was dancing like an elfling at Yuletide.

An elfling with plans for Ultimate Revenge and possible World Domination.

Celt's relief was cut short by a strange and guttural roar, unnaturally shoved into a higher octave. Sauron was doing his best to inflict fire and death on DarthMihi. He was failing quite miserably. The fallen Maia could not reach his assailant because Mihi still had a death-grip on his foot. This didn't stop him from trying, though. The net result was that Sauron was screaming in rage and Mihi had a rather interesting expression on her slightly-freckled face. Then she brought her nose within a few millimeters of his and screamed:

'Yiyiyiyi!"

Looking up, she grinned at her twin sister and Fëanor. 'If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.'

As previously stated, RandomCelt was too distracted to notice the maniacal gleam in Fëanor's eyes, and thus simply addressed the Kinslayer-in-Chief: 'My Lord Curufinwë...'

What did one say to Fëanor? Fortunately, she had no need to say more, for he cut her off - 'Bring me histories! Bring me books! I shall discover the weaknesses of Mandos and then I shall destroy him in fire and blood and-'

'Doom,' RandomCelt muttered, as Fëanor continued to rant and rave, his plans growing bloodier and more disturbing by the minute.

But RandomCelt knew why all these things were happening - it was a Friday.

Meanwhile, in a dark and gloomy hall in _the _Dark and Gloomy Halls, Mandos sat with his head in his hands. He could not believe that the Star Queen had actually gone through with it. (Never mind that he had gone along with the Evil Plan. That was of no consequence.) And to compound his problems, Sauron Gorthaur was on the miniature loose as well. At least he had no powers in this state; there were _always_ things to be grateful for.

At that very moment, Tulkas walked in, a book of knock-knock jokes under his arm.

_Always_, Námo reminded himself. Astaldo, the Laughing Vala, could have had three books.

* * *

_A/N: *peeks around laptop* I have no excuses. Yes, my muse had suicidal thoughts, yes I got sick, yes - the list goes on, but none of those are good reasons. *bows obsequiously* Please do not murder or dismember your humble servant._

_Also, Fëanor and Sauron may seem OOC: Fëanor's emotions bounce all over the place, and Sauron is in All Consuming Rage Mode. This is because, I theorize, they are so small that they can only hold one emotion at a time..._

_~RandomCelt_


	4. Knock-Knock, or Catupult the Frog Food

_'Bring me histories! Bring me books! I shall discover the weaknesses of Mandos and then I shall destroy him in fire and blood and-'_

_'Doom,' RandomCelt muttered, as Fëanor continued to rant and rave..._

* * *

A few minutes later, Celt and Fëanor sat at the kitchen table, _The Silmarillion_, _The Book of Lost Tales_ (volume one), and an ancient laptop strewn before them. Fëanor sat _on_ the table. Celt had explained to him that these were all the histories of the Elder Days that her family possessed, and assured the Noldo that she would find more information on her computer. Fëanor gave a non-committal grunt at this and cracked open Quenta Silmarillion, practically sitting on the paper back to keep it from closing.

He turned to the Valaquenta and began to read, muttering all the while about finding Námo's secret weakness. Celt didn't think the Vala had any, but she wasn't about to say that. Besides, there were far more destructive things Fëanor could be doing; best to keep him occupied.

She flexed her fingers and brought up the Google homepage, wondering why she was helping Fëanor in the first place. If he was real, then the Valar were real, and they might not take kindly to someone who (no matter how ineptly) was plotting their downfall. But Fëanor and Sauron were in her house, and Manwë was probably lounging on Taniquetil. So she typed 'Mandos' into the search engine, and glanced out the window. No eagles in sight. She hit enter.

Results from the Tolkien Gateway and the LotR Wiki popped up, and she took a few minutes to read them in their entirety, trusting the knowledge gathered by nerds far wiser and more venerable than herself. But all she found, other than her previously existing Nerdly Knowledge, was that Mandos meant "Prison-fortress" in Quenya. Celt didn't mention her discovery, assuming that Fëanor, a native Quenya speaker, would already know this.

'He has once been moved to pity...'

Fëanor's quiet rumination broke through her thoughts.

'But that might not help us,' Celt ventured. 'He won't take pity on you.'

Fëanor nailed her with a piercing glare, and her mouth closed with a snap as Sauron, breaking off the name-calling contest he was having with Mihi, piped up from across the kitchen.

'Are you sure, Fëanáro? Because you are most pitiful...'

Mihi poked him, and he rounded on her, prematurely ending what could have become the yelling match of the century.

* * *

'Knock-Knock!'

Mandos sighed wearily. 'Who's there?'

'Woo!' Tulkas looked just as excited as he had three hours and four-hundred knock-knock jokes ago.

'Woo who?' Maybe, if he stopped answering, Tulkas wouldn't notice and he could escape...

'Don't get too excited, it's just a joke,' the Laughing Vala crowed. Mandos buried his head in his hands and resisted the urge to groan as Tulkas began the inane cycle again.

'Knock, knock!'

'Who's there?' Námo began to wonder if Eru was punishing him for turning two of his charges into toys.

'Orange,' Tulkas sang out, his face aglow.

'Orange who?' Mandos' voice issued from between the heavy hands that covered his stern and noble face.

'Knock, knock!'

'Who's there?' Mandos had the feeling that things were starting to run in circles even more than before, but he wasn't sure...

'Orange!' It was definitely repeating. Maybe Tulkas was truly as brainless as Námo sometimes imagined.

'Orange who?' Mandos felt the words slip out automatically as a deep rage welled up within the flame of his being.

'Knock, kno-'

'ENOUGH!' Námo roared in a voice like a thousand thunders.

His dubiously sound patience, stretched to its limit, had shattered in a deluge of Doom, spewing ominous shadows across the room. He towered above Astaldo like a gloomy, gray monolith. It was a sight to make the greatest and shiniest of the shiny Vanyarin warriors quake in his sparkly boots.

But Tulkas laughed. And laughed. And laughed some more.

Mandos felt his blood-pressure spike. He was fairly certain that the vein on the left side of his forehead was pulsing in harmony with the manic glint that, by now, must have been dancing in his eyes.

* * *

'Grease-brained mortal!'

'Flame-headed twerp!'

'Imbecile of the pimply face!'

'Say it and die,' ground out Mihi, her demeanor changing in the blink of an eye. She suspended Sauron over the kitchen sink. The In-Sink-Erator whirred fearsomely to life, and Gorthaur the Cruel felt fear's fingers ghost over him. Just its fingers, mind you; he _was_ a Maia. But he had never expected to die this way, none the less.

'MIHI!' Celt screeched.

'WHATI?!' Mihi screeched back.

'You can't _do_ that. He's ...our guest.'

'Yeah, and he's also so evil that Loki would look like an angel next to him.'

'Then... have pity on his wretchedness.'

'That sounds nice, but stop and think about it. Why is Sauron Gorthaur wretched?'

'Because he's dangling over a sink armed with a live In-Sink-Erator.'

Mihi made a noise of disgust and threw Sauron onto the counter-top, shutting off the In-Sink-Erator. Sauron looked up at her searchingly and then stated matter-of-factly, 'You have guts.'

'Uh, yeah. Most life-forms do.'

Gorthaur rolled his tiny eyes and extended his hand to Mihi in a gesture of peace.

'Truce?'

Mihi nodded, and then added, 'We can cause so much trouble together...'

Celt looked on worriedly, wondering how in Arda her twin sister had just made an alliance with Gorthaur the Cruel.

* * *

Mandos tried deep-breathing. He tried counting sheep. He tried asking himself how many Teleri would run screaming away at the sight of a Fëanorian. But nothing worked. As Tulkas laughed louder and louder, something deep within him snapped.

In a deadly, soft, inevitably Doomful voice, he ground out, 'Cease thy prattle. It would be better for thee to speak nonsense. SILENCE!'

Astaldo's guffaws trickled down to a few giggles and then died out entirely under the weight of Námo's glare. But he was not cowed for long; he devised a clever jab that ran something like this: _What's up __with __the Shakespearean? _

But it did not leave his mouth sounding like that, at all.

Instead, he drawled, 'Catapult the frog food.'

* * *

_A/N: Here ya go; the next installment in my saga of plushie madness. What do _you_ think Mandos did to Tulkas?_

_~RandomCelt_


	5. Give Me Acne or Give Me Roadkill!

_A/N: Big thanks to my beta, CrackinAndProudOfIt! She caught many errors and prevented many blunders. :)_

* * *

Celt looked on worriedly, wondering how in Arda her twin sister had just made an alliance with Gorthaur the Cruel. Mihi and Sauron were whispering excitedly about something, and she wasn't sure she wanted to know what it was. Then their voices became louder, and Celt listened intently.

"I like to bite things. What do you like?" Sauron addressed Mihi.

The girl thought for a minute before replying, "I like to drive RandomCelt insane." She smiled evilly, looking strikinglylike an Evil Overlady in training. Girl and Mini-Dark Lord picked up and moved to the living room, Sauron riding on Mihi's shoulder. The younger member of thewayfaringstrangers seemed to be treating the whole fiasco like some sort of cosmic joke. RandomCelt, however, was not.

Celt rubbed a hand over face, then inspected her chewed fingernails and destroyed cuticles. It was going to be long day: she had already nibbled her nails to the quick, and it was only mid-morning. Fëanor snapped his miniscule fingers imperiously, surprisingly loud for his tiny size.

'Mortal!'

'Yes?'

His noble, stirring voice sounded rather shrill coming from so tiny a person. It was giving Celt a headache.

'We must vanquish Mandos. Fetch me this_kom-putor __,_ and I shall search its perilous depths, as you seem incompetent for such an endeavor,' he intoned, stretching an arm toward the laptop. 'Give.'

Celt tightly clutched the shiny bundle of metal, plastic and glass and shook her head. There was no way she was letting Fëanor get his little paws on it! The laptop was thewayfaringstrangers' link to the Internet: to fandom and their fellow nerds. Besides, the amount of damage Feanaro Curufinwe could do with access to Teh Interwebz scared Celt a little more than she would like to admit.

Fëanor snorted irately, stamping his foot and tossing his dark head like a horse. 'Give me it, mortal. It would be _unwise _to defy my commands. I forged the Silmarils in the deeps of Time, long before your puny race awoke. I led the hosts of the Noldor beyond the Sundering Seas. I...'

The Noldo ranted on and on, lost in his own erstwhile greatness. Celt cleared her throat softly, waved her hand in front of his face...

'...I defied the Valar when as yet no one else had dared...'

…and realized that, until he finished singing his own praises, Fëanor would be insensible to the world beyond himself. Seeing an opportunity to put the Internet beyond his reach, Celt waved frantically at Mihi until the girl looked up. Seeing the laptop, she tiptoed over and eased the device out of Celt's hands.

The elder of thewayfaringstrangers breathed a sigh of relief, just as Fëanor finished: '...and I single-handedly inflicted a scar on the face of Gothmog that he bore until the day of his death.'

Celt inwardly rolled her eyes – Ecthelion had actually _killed_ the Balrog, and died himself, too. The bespeckticked Tolkienite bet that if it was Ecthelion of the Fountain sitting in her kitchen,_he_ would not be boasting and bragging of his achievements. But alas! Such was not her lot. Fëanor was sitting in her kitchen, disclaiming his own superiority, and would be there until... Well, until when RandomCelt didn't know, _But Gandalf did_, she thought: _'I have not passed through fire and death to bandy words with a crooked fool until the lightning falls!'_

Unfortunately for Celt, there was no lightning to fall, only an irate cry from Fëanor when he realized that the laptop had passed beyond reclaim. She couldn't help the tiny smirk that clawed its way onto her face at his angry mumblings.

* * *

DarthMihi set Sauron down on the arm of the green-gray couch in thewayfaringstrangers' green-gray living room. (The walls carpet and couch in that room were all similar shades of a color that fluctuated based on lighting conditions so that it was quite impossible to decide its hue. It was rather like having a Lorien room, only less Elven and more messy.) The Mini-Dark Lord stretched regally, surveying his new surroundings with a critical eye.

Mihi set the laptop down on a table beside the Lorien-couch, as relieved as her sister that Fëanor hadn't achieved access to the Web. However, it occurred to her that she hadn't logged on to FF yet that day; it couldn't really hurt if Sauron glimpsed the Web over her shoulder, could it?

* * *

'Fëanor.'

'Who dares to address me so boldly?' The Noldo so addressed glanced up at Celt from the dark clouds of his ire.

The Tolkienite took a deep breath and told herself not to worry.

'Have you ever made pizza?'

RandomCelt needed to make lunch, and a homemade pizza sounded really good[,] just then. (Thewayfaringstrangers' family had slowly perfected their own pizza recipe over the years; it was now half-way beyond delicious.) Besides, with two girls and two mini-legends to feed, one pizza could be dinner, as well.

Celt had the feeling that she might not have the energy or the will-power to cook something else in a few hours. Generally, she loved working in the kitchen: cooking and baking were, in her odd little mind, creative arts, and therefore she pursued them with the same avid interest as drawing (even though her paintings and sketches were rather...sad) and frustration and irritation, however, had a way of sapping her creative energy.

Best, then, judging from the only-slightly-appeased expression gracing Fëanor's face, to start making the pizza dough right away.

Fëanor cocked his tiny head, eyeing RandomCelt's face. At length, he responded: 'I have never heard of this craft. But Curufinwe Feanaro is a match for any art or skill.'

In other words, _Challenge accepted_. RandomCelt allowed herself a small smile of relief. The greatest of the Noldor would now be occupied, and (hopefully) too distracted, interested, and/or determined, to pursue dubious schemes of (as previously stated) Ultimate Revenge and Possible World Domination.

* * *

'Catapult the frog food.'

The irate march of Doom and Gloom tramping through Namo's head ground to a halt, and the Vala stared at his fellow Power, slack-jawed in amazement and horror.

_Catapult the frog food?_

Tulkas wasn't the brightest star in the sky, but even _his _stupidity did not stoop to this level of inanity. Besides, judging from the confusion drenching Astaldo's face, the nonsensical babble might not have been intentional.

Mandos' suspicions were confirmed when his colleague again attempted to express himself.

'Let us rummage haphazardly in the courts of the king,' he suggested, eyebrows drawing together in confusion. He tried again, 'Verily, verily, snowshoe.'

Tulkas shook his shaggy, golden head, stomping a massive foot in frustration, and added in a peeved tone, 'What hath the mayonnaise wrought?'

He howled in rage, yelling out random words and phrases, when, as Mandos imagined, he meant to spew foul oaths and curses. It sounded a bit like this:

'Toerag! Goldfish in the Firmament! Mattresses be praised! WOMBAT!'

Mandos felt his craggy, grey eyebrows trying to crawl into his craggy, grey hairline. Something was very, very wrong with Tulkas. It appeared that the Laughing Vala was now the Gibbering Vala. He wondered if he himself had somehow caused Tulkas to lose his powers of articulation; after all, it wasn't very often that a Vala or Valie lost his or her temper as explosively as Mandos just had.

Moments of all-consuming rage tended to have extremely odd consequences. For instance, a few thousand years ago, the sky had rained dolphins and sea-horse skeletons after Osse begged Ulmo for a raise at just the wrong moment. And then there was the time when Varda inadvertently turned Earendil's star a horrible shade of orange. The inhabitants of Valinor tried not to think about that incident too often; the mental scarring was just too awful.

The Valar's Doomsman was pulled from his (not-so-)fond recollections of Travesty and Doom by the sound of Tulkas throwing random objects and screaming random words at the top of his stentorian voice. Mandos did his best to tune out the racket, hoping, however illogically, that if he just ignored the problem, it would go away.

'...Miserable oil-can... …Distant tuna..'

The words grew in volume, but Namo resolutely plugged his ears, humming a few bars of the Noldolante to drown out the racket.

Then Vaire's cat flew past his ear.

Mandos turned and beheld a scene of chaotic destruction: Tulkas charged around his abode, yelling inanities, smashing Vaire's knickknacks, and hurling hapless felines through the air. The Doomsman realized, with a sigh, that he must do something to cure Tulkas, lest the frustrated Vala destroy half of Valinor in his unintelligible ragings. If a small voice in Namo's head whispered that this was all his fault, and that of course he must fix what he had broken, he played deaf.

Guilt is an unbecoming stain on the cold and somber face of Doom.

He seized Tulkas by the collar and hauled him out into the starlight, down a long dark road, up a tall white mountain, and into the presence of the Elder King himself, where, sprawled on the shining floor, Astaldo glibly cried, 'Give me acne or give me roadkill!'

Mandos would never admit it, but the looks on Manwe and Varda's faces were almost worth the whole ordeal.

* * *

_A/N: This fic is now over a year old. And how many chapters does it have? Five. In a year. I apologize most profusely for my shocking lack of updates! If it's any consolation, the fic is nearing its climax and resolution. The next few/last chapters should be posted much faster. _

_~RandomCelt_

_PS - all reviewers will receive a hand-written thank-you note from Tulkas. Good luck trying to figure out what it says!_


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